


Five promises

by ChocoNut



Series: Tales of love (Season 3/4) [47]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, Missing Scene, Post bear-pit, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Five promises. Brienne and him. That is what this is all about.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Tales of love (Season 3/4) [47]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1483640
Comments: 12
Kudos: 72





	Five promises

Jaime doesn’t know what bothers him more. That she is being frugal with her words? Or that she barely looks at him these days? The first he’d had to deal with right from the inception of their journey. The second—well— why the fuck should it even matter to him?

Why should he care if she sits alone in a corner of their tent, her bedroll abandoned, those eyes pretending he doesn’t exist?

Why should he fret about it if the only acknowledgement his entrance into their shared dwelling for the night evokes, is a slight tightening of her shoulders and nothing more?

And why the fuck should it be his concern if the homely wench is sad or glad? No more than a chance visitor in his life, her cares are not his. That those brilliant eyes have misplaced their spark tonight should not matter to him.

So why then does his chest feel like a boulder is pushing it down?

“Enough of this,” he gruffly calls out as he approaches her. “You think staying aloof is going to make you feel better?”

Brienne stirs; those eyes aren’t too pleased with his intervention. But then, what did he expect? As if she’d run into his arms and confess what’s bothering her. “It’s quite late,” she says, looking down at his bandaged stump. “Don’t you need some rest?”

“Rest?” He punctuates his words with a dry mirthless laugh as he joins her in her treasured corner. “Sleep has abandoned my company ever since—” He follows her gaze, tries not to lament about what he’s been deprived of. “But you—” he challenges those eyes to a duel “—what bothers you?”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “Nothing.” Then she shifts, and when he clicks his tongue in disbelief, she snaps back with a, “What?”

“You’re pissed.” And he’s noted this ever since they walked away from the bear-pit and Locke. There’s a tension to almost everything she says—or doesn’t say, in every movement, in the way she looks at him whenever she spares him that courtesy. “With me,” he surmises, for what else can be the reason.

“Oh, spit it out,” he growls, when she continues to stall. “Is it because they call you my whore?” Several times, he’s overheard it, though not one of them has the balls to say it to his face, and every single time, he’s wanted to rip his sword through the offender and tear his guts out. “If it soothes you, I abhor it,” he tries to placate her when her face confirms his doubt. “And if it worries you, I’m—”

“—not interested, I know.” And for some reason, her dogged assumption of his desires, though he was going to echo exactly the same, pinches him. “Some of Locke’s men were, though,” she recalls with spite, and that is when his attention is diverted to the tears on her sleeves, the faint bruise on her cheek, the cut on her upper lip. “They did want to overpower me, fling me down—” Cheeks pink with indignation, she leaves it there, an unpleasant memory of their past, no doubt. Jaime’s stomach curls up in recollection, throwing up every scathing insult he’s hurled at her in nasty regurgitation. “Speaking of your whores—” her eyes set out on a journey “—you once made that proposition to me, remember? You wanted to—” 

“It was—”

“—a cruel joke you tried to spring on me,” she blandly goes on, lips barely moving. “Something you thought would show me my place—” She scoffs, folds her legs and curls up against the wall. “Of course you’re not interested.” Her expression shrinks to distress and disappointment. “No man has ever wanted me and you’re no different—” 

“I’m not them, Brienne.” Unbidden, his hand finds her face, and unbidden, this touch awakens his arousal. When she doesn’t try to swat him off, he crawls close. “But if you—” He stops when her gaze hits him again, tearing him into shards. His heart shrinking down to a painful speck, he wills away his erection, hopes for his body to pay heed to him and shut the hell up. His lust, or whatever it is—it’s not something she shares. “I’ve said things I’m not proud of, done things I regret. If only I could go back and—” Suddenly, he cannot look her in the eye anymore. “I must leave you to—” The fingers on her face crumple to fingertips, but just when he’s about to withdraw, her hand traps his. 

“Stay,” she croaks, and that’s all she says.

How and when his hand gave way to his lips, he cannot say. All he knows now are the lips they now caress, every scratch they bear, every hint of what her captors have put her through in his absence. All he wants is to make it better, to soothe her with his softness, to seduce her with his passion, with the want and desire and everything else that’s queuing up inside him to gush out. She tastes of dirt and dried blood, yet, there’s a womanly sweetness he’s never associated with her, a flavour he wants more of. She parts her lips, lets him in, and he presses his stump to her waist, goes in deeper. Blood rushes to his cock, leaving him at the mercy of his need, of her. Maiden and warrior, he wants them both. To colour every freckle with his desire is the desire surging through him. With every touch, he wants to show her he’s not one of _those men_ anymore. With every kiss, he wants to magic away her bruises, to kill her pain and fill her with pleasure.

“ _Interested_ ,” he whispers against her mouth when they slow down. “Have always been.”

With her smouldering gaze, she reciprocates, her hand dropping to his thigh, the other seeking his shirt. But when he buries his face in her neck, when he kisses his way along her throat, her jawline and up to her cheek, her fingers stumble over his laces, and when he stumbles upon her lips, her hands completely lose their way. Her hips buck slightly, brush his aching arousal, and when she presses closer, he’s lost too. Gone is the reluctance; there’s a fierceness to her passion. The hands that grab his shirt in a grip that could rip it off, the grunts his mouth traps mid-way, the tongue that wets his lips—Jaime lets the storm that is her engulf him. He wants to be swept away, to be torn apart by her lust. He pulls her to him, a bit more aggressively than he means to, a fresh burst of need kicking in with a surge. He can feel her pointed tits even over the intrusion of his garment. His hand descends to her throat; he can feel her heart thrumming wildly as she opens up to him, can feel the blood pulsing against his fingers. Both her hands wrapped around the back of his neck, she moans into him, their needs meeting and mating in an explosion of lust.

His erection is beyond him, desperately seeking satiation, and surrendering to its command, he pushes into her. If his pants didn’t serve as restraints, he’d have ripped her rags away and— 

But she pulls away, closes her eyes for a moment, and Jaime doesn’t know how he should respond. Does she regret this? Should he walk away like a dignified knight and leave her to herself? Come morning, should he pretend this never happened?

The answer lies in the painful silence that stands between them.

He gets up, ready to leave. “Brienne, if you want me to—”

“Yes.” It is not a subtle consent but a thumping demand. “I _want_ you to—”

She doesn’t finish, but leaves the bed. Her hands find his clothes again, and when she has finished undressing him, he feels strangely— _vulnerable_? Her fingers roam, survey the numerous scars on his chest, and when she makes it down to the still bandaged stump, a wince slips past her lips. In that little, yet, loaded gesture, lies more than compassion. 

When she looks up, there is a tenderness he has never seen before on her face, a _something_ that’s more than just a carnal itch that begs to be scratched. 

When her hand skips up his arm to meet his heart, he stops to listen, realizing, only now, that it has been trying to nudge him along this path for a while. 

When she surprises him with a rare smile tugging at her lips and a soft, “ _Jaime,_ ” he can see it all through those eyes, see deep into the heart that has never known love at all.

When he brings his hand over hers, his heartbeat kisses away her pang, tells her this is a bond even an oathbreaker like him will never break.

Shaking fingers draw away; she stiffens, palms restlessly patting down her lap, she softly transforms into the maiden she’s kept hidden away from the world. When those hands—they that have ruthlessly cut down more adversaries than many men have—nervously flutter away to the laces on her chest, Jaime takes her wrist.

“Let me,” he offers, and with her help, he works on the bindings, then slowly peels the dress away, one sleeve at a time, exposing her pert breasts to the cool air. She makes a sound, letting go, herself, when he leisurely lets his fingers drift, when he’s further cause for those pink nipples to harden and rise.

But a moment later, she gathers the bunched up garment and presses it to her chest. 

“Don’t you want this?” he asks.

“I—look at me—” she casts herself a critical look “—I—I just don’t want you to—”

“ _You_ look at me,” he says hoarsely, glancing down at his engorged cock. “Look at what you’ve done to me. And you still think I—” He gently wrenches the dress out of her hands and pushes it out of his way. He lets his hand move across her bare stomach, then reaches up to caress the underside of one breast as he bends forward, his lips skimming across the scar on her neck. “I want you,” he whispers, and when he drifts down to take her unattended breast in his mouth, she sighs, abandons the dress to stroke the nape of his neck.

He lays her down, and she lies before him, naked in her trust.

He joins her, kisses her deeply, gives in to the warmth of her embrace. When their tongues meet, he tells her what he cannot bring to words. With every touch, he makes her a promise, every finger singing the same song, yet, a different verse of it. Each is a vow he will fulfill or die trying. Each is a privilege he asks of her.

He holds her like no one ever has. He lets himself be held in a way that reaches beyond his body. It feels like a sweet dream when he kisses his way down her neck. It feels more real than the days he has lived when he captures her nipple, his lips grasping a delicate hold of her womanly flesh. 

It feels like heaven, though he never really has believed in one.

When his hand seeks what he needs, it feels even better than that. When he dips into her sweet honey, the way she hunches her hips off the floor, that little gasp that bursts through her lips—this is her vow, this is her trust, this is what he means to her. 

If only the ones who hail heaven as the ultimate destination could see where he is now…

He keeps it on, sliding up and down, rubbing, pressing, her pleasure his aim. Every moan he elicits makes him go further. Every slip of his name from her lips gets his cock stiffer. How he’d once detested the sight of this woman! And now, how much he—

_Yes. I do._

He pulls back to look into her eyes.

Yes, he finds himself there, never to be wrenched away no matter what, never to leave.

_Never._

He pins her down, and when she shifts her hips to caress his tip with her wetness, he slips in, holds there for a bit, then goes in all the way. She hisses, but does not scream or cry out—no, the warrior in her will not permit her to, but the woman in her deserves a little tenderness, a blanket of care and a whole lot of love.

He slides out, presses his lips to hers. _Your pain, I will always kiss away,_ he assures her.

He goes in again, with this thrust, dragging his mouth to her chest. _Your honour, I will always protect,_ he tells her heart. _I will gladly jump into that pit over and over again._

She wraps her legs around him, holds him close; the moan that leaves her lips has his name buried somewhere in it. She draws her hand between them, urges him to touch her there. With a thrust upward, she lurches into him, challenges him to go deeper, to surprise her, to make this a night to remember.

 _Trust me,_ says not just his body, when he pumps in and out of her, his fingers squeezing her hips. With each thrust, he pushes harder, lets the blood rush to his head, yet, promises he will never hurt her. With each thrust, her muscles seize him until it feels like he would never be able to pull out of her. 

Does he even want to? 

His pulse is thundering in his ears, and so is hers, egging him on, goading him to ride faster until their movements matched the beat of their hearts.

 _I will not bed another,_ he pledges, this time. Her sweat, he wants to be bathed in. Her cries of passion, he yearns to be surrounded by. Her lips are the only pair he ever wants to know; his sword, no more, will ever seek another sheath. And it’s not just his loins that give her their word; he takes a brief moment to tell her eyes that it is not just her body he desires, but her heart, her soul.

_You._

With every stroke he makes passionate love, not just to her body, reiterating every time, the vows he’ll never break. And in return, her thrashing hips, her roving hands, her lips that grope around for his—they make promises of their own. When the waves come crashing upon her, with the tension in her body, he can feel his belly tighten. He can feel this connection deeper than ever—this goes beyond cocks and cunts, beyond the heels that kick into the back of his thighs, his fingers that blindly reach for her teats. 

This goes beyond the shivers that rock her body, even farther than the kiss he ravages her with. This is not just a fierce mating dance and not all about their need for a release, not about this agony they suffer together or just a journey to the realm of bliss.

This is not him twitching and writhing, not her collapsing around him.

This is—

 _Fuck,_ it feels like time has crashed around them, that they have gone beyond the forces that govern their existence to truly become one.

This—that’s what this is all about.

This is about the peace after the storm, the promises that are yet to find form.

This is all about their ragged breathing, their quivering bodies that make the gentle journey of recovery, the comfort they seek in each other’s arms, the calm they derive in each other’s eyes as they lie wrapped in one another.

 _I will always be yours,_ he smiles into her eyes, and when her answer warms his heart, he shares a lazy kiss with her.

Five promises. Brienne and him. That is what this is all about. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my 2 a.m ramblings! I'm not sure how much sense I made in this, but I had to get it out of my system.


End file.
